Chained with Hatred
by MomentoMori2
Summary: I want to remind you that the Dark Lord was a genius. Cruel, heartless, merciless – but still an evil genius he was, and the thing he had in mind that time was, I suppose, the biggest and greatest project that had ever existed in the world… Volmione, GinnyWeasley/BlaiseZabini (as a second pairing). Translation.


**Chapter 1**

_"I want to remind you that the Dark Lord was a genius. Cruel, heartless, merciless – but still an evil genius he was, and the thing he had in mind that time, I suppose, was the biggest and greatest project that had ever existed in the world…"_

_Gloria Rasconti, 'The History of Rapask's Experiment'_

There's nothing more pleasurable in the world than to destroy all protection of you rival. Only yesterday his enemies shouted that they didn't fear him. Only yesterday newspapers and magazines were full of photographs of those Braves who would do anything to protect country from _him_. Only yesterday everybody dared to challenge him, ready to fight.

He accepted the challenge, but somehow nobody was willing to fight him anymore. Where were those prideful and heroic soldiers who had agreed to defend their families to the last drop of blood?

There was none, they were gone with the wind, evaporated. When a Chief is killed, tribe men run left, right and centre, screaming all the way. And people were no exception.

Tom Riddle, more famous as Lord Voldemort, was sitting in his office, staring idly at the fire, crackling in the fireplace. Flames were dancing under his gaze in odd figures, patterns and forms. But soon enough he became bored. The man moved his fingers slightly, and the fire was covered with ice. With another wave of his hand, ice broke in the millions of fragments.

Every barrier can be broken. One only need to know how exactly to do so.

A pleasure after recent murderer started to back down, giving a place to calculation and calmness. He wasn't allowed to spend his precious time so thoughtlessly. Though he had won, there were many things at hand that needed to be done that day, and the wizard needed time for that, too. That included to prize those who were faithful and to punish all those who had betrayed him. He would never forgive betrayal and cowardice. A man had to be ready to do everything for him, and only then he was worth of his prize. And Tom was capable of prizing properly.

Among his countless followers there would be hardly ten of really faithful and devoted men. Tom knew – if he let himself fall once, the herd, which was adorably waving its tail before, would start barking and tear him in pieces. A high fly always promises a painful fall (also more likely that the fall would be the deadly one in his case). If he made a mistake he would not be forgiven. He had no room for mistake. He was a Master now, and there were thousands of lives in his hands. It was time for the finishing scene of the war – a time to build his own Empire.

But first things first. Tom closed his eyes for a second, concentrating. Just in a minute somebody knocked his door hesitantly. Tom had waited for another minute, taking pleasure from the obvious terror of his visitor and at the same time waiting for him to open the door. If the man did it before he was given permission, he wouldn't escape the punishment.

But the visitor was cleverer than that so he waited for reply. Tom understood it quickly but decided to wait a little bit more. It seemed that ages passed before he finally let him in.

The visitor was a young man in his twentieth. Voldemort noticed him three years ago when the boy was still working for the Ministry. He then sent Lucy to him – a beautiful young lady who calculatingly enticed immature Aurors on his side. Alan was no exception, though it turned out to be harder to entice him than it was expected. He had everything one could ever dream of – a family, a job, a girlfriend and an opportunity of breathtaking career. Tom was not satisfied with such a situation. Having chosen himself a target, he either went for it stubbornly until getting what he wanted or, convincing that everything was futile, he destroyed it.

But Alan was too delicious of a target to decline him so quickly. He was a great analytic, being able to see what others noticed rarely; he was a perfect spy, having his very own special sources that wouldn't stop providing him with information even if he chose another side; after all, he knew a great deal about inner operations of the Ministry. Alan was the man worth fighting for. Tom remembered how easy it was to convince the Ministry that Alan was a betrayer, ascribing to him the guilt in crimes, made by others. And the boy became an outsider. He was left by everyone, even by his girlfriend who sincerely loved him and by sister who understood him better than their own parents. So it was no wonder that Alan agreed rather quickly on the offer to join Voldemort's ranks after that.

Tom recalled what newspapers, devoted to Ministry, wrote in such cases. They told that he used curses, deceiving speeches and other dirty tricks. It was true – no advantage in denying what was obvious. But what newspapers never wrote about was that the Aurors went on his side because they weren't appreciated by their Heads; that many of them were suspected and accused of crimes they never did; that it was the Ministry in the first place that gave its workers an opportunity and, more significantly, a _desire_ to change sides.

It was differently in the Order of Phoenix, though. Every person there was respected and appreciated and was stood for till the end. Such people didn't betray. During the whole war Voldemort happened to meet only one person form Order that took his side. That was Peter Pettigrew.

"You called for me, Master," Alan said. That wasn't a question but a statement.

"Yes, Alan," Voldemort answered softly. It was such a delight for him to notice how his follower tensed. The fact that Lord was talking in a soft voice didn't mean he was satisfied with his knights. Alan saw by himself as Voldemort tortured people with a smile on his face.

"It's about your last work, my boy. I really hope you did not make a mistake."

"I have never let you down, sir!" Alan said with a fire in his eyes.

"And I hope you won't this time, too. Take care of this case; make everything to be done as it should be. You are personally in charge of this operation."

"Yes, Master."

"And one more thing. Tell Blaise to come to me. I want to talk with him immediately." It meant he let him go so that Alan would be able to act accordingly to his orders.

"I obey, Master." Having bowed slightly, the man left his room. Tom remembered his expression as he was giving him this mission.

_'__If he manages it_,' he thought_, 'I_ _will probably let him marry Lucy.'_

Tom knew what that girl meant to Alan, for she had saved him in the minute of complete loneliness. And what really was a marvel – Lucy responded to his feelings. She had broken many hearts in her life but not Alan's. They loved each other. Stupid. Gifted young people, very gifted – but they could have paid a high price for their feelings. Though there were advantages, after all. Those very feeling gave Voldemort almost absolute power over them. A play on feelings was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful games that had ever existed. Lord knew its rules very well and played it really often. As often as he played with that couple.

He knew if he gave Lucy to Alan he'd lost control over them, for wedding were their old and the most desirable dream ever. But, at the same time, if he didn't give them permission of their unit there might be a rebellion as well. And he would lose them forever.

He'd always have time to remove them if they were no more of a use. He had to check how much his control would lessen if he let them get married. Then he'd be able to make a proper decision. Of course, in case they both accomplished his orders.

The door was knocked again. Blaise came in. In Blaise's faithfulness he was convinced long time ago, in those times when he had still spied for him in Hogwarts. A talented boy, besides he was really devoted to him. Though, all of Zabini were hardly accused of betrayal – Valcon Zabini and his sons, Blaise and Larcus, were rarely to let him down. But Blaise, with no doubt, had made for him more than his father or brother ever did. Blaise had turned eighteen not so long ago. He was handsome bronzed young man, pretty tall and muscular. Short shiny black hair, beautiful brown eyes with a constant fire in them and elegant nose – everything told about mother's Spanish roots. But Tom appreciated not his attractiveness but his skills. Blaise was smart, really smart. Cunning and intelligent, he never went on the direct attack but at the same time always participated in fights, and he often gave his Lord what he needed. Zabini came out with such diabolical plans that sometimes Lord wasn't sure whether he could have done better. Blaise had never let him down – there were cases when a plan went wrong because of other people's mistakes, but never because of Blaise. Tom appreciated him, giving him the most responsible missions, and he always prized him generously.

This time Blaise accomplished his mission brilliantly once again. Tom had seen him long time ago and during this time Zabini had done for him many important things. Now Lord was musing what would he ask this time. Money? Never. England would have shivered if it knew how much capitals Blaise had in one of his Switzerland banks. Artifacts? Blaise often asked them for his service. But he had already had tons of them… Control? He was almost Voldemort's right hand, he was. Then what? People? But why? War was over and for the service purposes he had Elves. He was interested in what boy would demand. Though, Tom had his own suspicions for this case. And the more he thought about it the more he agreed that it was the right thought indeed.

"I always considered you to be a man who would not betray me," he started, "and once again you convinced me that I was right."

"Thank you, my Lord," Blaise answered with admiration.

"We haven't seen each other for several months. During this period you managed to trick some important operations, and every one of them was successful. I'm very pleased with you, Blaise," in his mouth that was the highest praise, "and I'm willing to make you a little present."

Everybody knew that he never made little presents. But Tom thought that everything became known in comparison, and in comparison to those resources he now had it might have been considered as a little gift, really.

"So," he continued, looking directly in his follower's eyes, "what do you want, Blaise?"

After a slight pause he responded,

"A woman."

A woman. He predicted that. All pureblood heirs were so predictable.

"Oh, really," he said mockingly. "Getting older, are we, Blaise?"Zabini didn't reply.

"What woman do you want?" Lord continued, never leaving his eyes from the boy. "For you want a certain persona, aren't you?"

"Yes, I do, sir," Blaise answered with respect.

Voldemort felt that his Death Eater was really uncomfortable about her name, but he mercilessly continued,

"And who's that lovely person?"

"Ginevra Weasley," he answered coolly.

Ginevra? Unexpected, unexpected. He wondered what was that in her that attracted Blaise. Though, it never really mattered – youth had its own interests and strange tastes. But… to give him a Weasley? Lord started to ponder about that. Undoubtedly, Blaise earned himself such praise. But there were also at least ten more others purebloods who, as well, would do everything to make that ginger head theirs.

Blaise stood there, calm and indifferent as always, waiting patiently for his reply, while Lord was musing quickly how to make a right decision. Zabini had, after all, made a great deal of things for him, and sooner or later he'd grant him with one (or even two) such girls as Weasley anyway. And what was the difference in those girls? It didn't really matter for him. But he knew that Blaise wouldn't take such replacement so lightly. And if he had set himself to do something he'd do everything to take what he wanted. In a way, Blaise was really a dangerous opponent. Though as long as Voldemort had what Blaise was interested in, he wouldn't abandon him.

"Fine, Blaise," he said. "I'll give you Ginevra."

A man in front of him nodded slightly.

"Thank you, my Lord," he answered quietly.

"Go to Glance, he's been set for a guard on the Southern Gates this evening. Tell him I sent you and that you need Weasley. He'll give her to you."

After a moment of silence he added,

"Don't tolerate her, Blaise. She now belongs to you. Do everything as fast as possible. I prize only those who manage to do everything quickly."

It meant 'If you won't hurry, I'll give her to someone else'.

"Don't worry, my Lord. I can be rather… persuasive."

And true it was, as Blaise was one of the best in that field.

"You may leave now. Come to me in three days."

"Yes, sir."

Blaise turned around and headed towards the exit, his pace as smooth as one of a cat. Lord looked at the closed door for a few moments after his follower long left.

"Three days, Zabini. Only three days," he said softly. He knew that this test would be harder for Blaise than any spying on enemies had ever been. Though, he'd be able to handle it. He had to handle it.

And now, other his not so faithful followers waited.

She played brave until she wasn't left all alone. Three hours of mockery, humiliation and fear – and here she was, finally alone in her cold stone cell.

The girl didn't know why she was so suddenly separated from other prisoners and moved to the Southern Wing, as an equal to the ten of other captives. That Wing differed from the Eastern one only by the fact of availability of berth, plus there were single cameras – under such circumstances it was an unthinkable luxury. It even looked tidier and friendlier than those in other Wings.

Hermione sat there, musing of what had happened with her friends. Voldemort destroyed their lives in one week. Her parents… they were killed during the raid on her district… Harry… she loved him so much, that kind and sweet boy…. And Ron… where was he now? At liberty? Abroad? Sheltered safely and waiting for the moment to go? Or was he placed in the neighboring boxing, waiting for the death he knew was inevitable for him? Or maybe he was in hands of some faithful Death Eater? Or else, his body could have been laying at the bottom of the lake, not even counting for the most humble funeral.

She had to hope. She had to believe he had passed away. Even if in such a way… then she'd be able to die with a peaceful mind.

And Crookshanks? Would he find himself new owner? Would he be able to survive on streets? Perhaps, he would for he was such a clever cat… A door opened with a sound shriek, a voice told,

"Get out."

She stood up… and froze on spot. Granger faced Alan Carten… How strange… he was a spy, not a torturer… what did he want? Having noticed her confusion, he approached her and took her arm forcefully.

"Would you walk on your own or should you be carried out?" he asked coldly.

"Was it an offer?" she pointed.

"No. It's a warning."

Hermione heard people talking warmer to room plants than Alan talked with her.

"On my own then," she decided. The girl got out her camera and stopped, not knowing where to go.

"On your left," Alan said obligingly, locking the door after her, and then took her by her arm, his grip as strong as steel.

Hermione obediently walked near Alan, wondering what they would do to her. Would she be killed as fast as Harry was, or would they torture her for years? The second option seemed to be more probable as time passed. Though she decided she wouldn't give this man such a satisfaction as to ask him where she was taken to. She'd find out by herself, eventually. On her own.

What was that phrase her mentor told her in such cases? 'Knowledge isn't always to be taken easily. Knowledge is a test. To refuse the test means to refuse the very knowledge'.

She'd manage. She wasn't any sort of gruel that can be destroyed with one swift motion of the wand. Even if she couldn't take a revenge on her torturers she'd at least make them to lower the ax. On her own will.

She was taken.

If there was something to cheer her up a little bit in that situation, it would be the knowledge of the fact that Hermione was near her, practically in neighboring camera. And now… now she was left alone.

Ginny looked around the room she was put in. Gloomy, murky, depressing – a good pressure on one's mind. And, of course, a waiting – for the man to rejoice when his killers come and take care of all his problems.

It had to be at least a day after Hogwarts was taken down that she was brought here. Hogwarts' Taking Down rather resembled the one of average High School than of the strong bastion. And that was what made her sad the most. That was it. They lost. Although everyone was certain of the completely opposite situation. But why one would ever wonder? What could a seventeen years old teenager have possibly done against mature and powerful dark wizard? It was a miracle he was lucky enough to destroy other Horctuxes, let alone to face him in battle. Perhaps, those Horcruxes were finely protected… Anyway, one can never be sure. There was only one thing known for certain – Harry was dead, and Lord was a triumphant. And soon enough they'd remember about her…

A rather fat rat had run near her, and now watched the girl with obvious interest. Ginny was pretty calm about that. She was long ago used to rats, for Ron had had one of them. One time she even awoke because something was crawling atop of her.

Maybe they decided to starve those rats to death. A clever thought, that one, for the rat was looking at her with quite a hungry expression.

Suddenly the rat stopped moving, having smelled something, and then ran away. Ginny, as every wizard who believed more in animals than in themselves, felt alarmed. Soon enough she was able to distinguish somebody's pacing in the hall. Doors to her camera were completely steel, so she had no opportunity to see who was coming. But Ginny understood. That was the guardian. He was the only one who could pace so heavily, let alone in a rhythm of iron crackling – probably, those were the keys to cameras.

"Six, seven, eight…Uh-huh."

Singing something under his nose, Glance started to unlock the doors to her room. Ginny froze on spot. And then she felt a cold gigantic wave of loathing starting to rise in her. Those people killed her family. Her parents, Bill, Charles, Percy… They killed her Harry. HER Harry. And only by a mere coincidence Fred and George had managed to run before they were captured. Meaning of her life, gathered painstakingly from millions of pieces, was mercilessly destroyed and humiliated to no end. People she loved were gone from her life. Only the ones she hated were left. Including that guardian who was smirking oh-so mockingly when she was brought here along with others. Even if that man wasn't guilty in deaths of the ones she loved, there would be no other chance for revenge.

When Glance finally finished with a locker Ginny was already ready for attack. There was nothing resembling a weapon on the room, but there was a fury, pain, hate and a desire to hurt as much as she could.

Even a nicest animal, being trapped, becomes furious and is able to harm severely. That was the same thing with Ginny. Kind and friendly girl turned into the Demon, wanting her retribution.

When the door opened and Glance appeared inside the room, she jumped on him and hit him hard…

Glance was lucky that because of sudden light Ginny didn't happen to aim properly. But it didn't mean there was less power in her kick. Ginny grew up in family where most of difficult situations with neighboring peers were solved only by means of a rude physical strength. And now a time came when wands once again turned out to be useless.

Glance stood still for a second. The last time he had got such a strong slap was when he was beaten in the kindergarten for insolent behavior. But he was impressed not by the force of the kick but by the inner strength of the girl who made it. He never did suppose that anybody would still have a nerve to rebel there, in prison. And she dared.

His pride was injured and demanded revenge. It was not a coincidence, though, that Glance was ordered to ward particularly this Wing, for he knew that _those_ captured had to be guarded, and harming them was an attempt of suicide. So his mind quickly suppressed his feelings – probably, that was what saved Ginny's life. He grabbed her painfully and, before she even had time to think about what had happened, took syringe, full of blue liquid, and pressed it in her arm. There were black dots over her vision. She only had time think that he did _something_ to her before blacking out.

Glance looked at the defenseless girl in his arms with pure hate. That little bitch had a nerve to hit him! Who was she to beat him, after all? He served to the Dark Lord for ten long years, and nobody, NOBODY from their victims had ever dared to even insult him. Well, that was nothing – Blaise would teach that lady some good manners. He wasn't Lord's favorite for nothing. Cruel and twisted in tortures, those two tyrants had found each other. Airel and Valcon, undoubtedly, were great duelists but Blaise overcame them both. Glance remembered those times when Valcon and Lucius still fought against each other for leadership, but it was solved by Blaise who, unlike Draco, always did what Voldemort wanted. Blaise had all his privileges not for nothing. Glance nonchalantly took Ginny and headed towards the exit. He was already waited outside.

Across the doors there was a beautiful carriage with four grey horses. Blaise liked grey. Perhaps, he'd also like black colour, but the Dark Lord had black horses and he didn't like when anybody obtained something he had. He supposed that the things he had could only belong to him and to him only. As a result, all aristocrats stopped buying black horses, terrified of Lord's rage. And Blaise was no exception.

"Here you are," Glance said, giving him the girl. "An amusing one. You'd like her."

"Undoubtedly," Blaise answered calmly. "And who had praised you with those beautiful scratches on your face? You didn't have them before."

Glance, furrowing, rubbed his cheek. Scratches… Hell, of course! That little red bitch… He didn't even notice.

Blaise smirked,

"Yes, you're right. And amusing one… Don't worry, I'll deal with her."

He cautiously leaned her body to the bench in the carriage, then he good-bye-ed Glance and left. Glance was left alone.

"Stupid bastard," he growled, "I hope she'd kick you a few times as well, before you make her obey you."


End file.
